


wake

by KH2024



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Dream Logic, Experimental Style, Footnotes, Memories, Mindfuck, Other, Psychosis, Tea, Therapy, wake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KH2024/pseuds/KH2024
Summary: She hadn't been dreaming.Dreams were for other people.





	wake

_wake_

  


_The table has been set for hours before your arrival and you finish placing the final knife. Blood seeps slowly down the serrated edge and you know it has been placed incorrectly, as the bread was just served. You nod to the waiter as the butter is lowered from the pewter platter, his face a ruin. She smiles and you laugh at the memory of how the waitress had placed the roll cut side down before you had the chance to mention how gluten made you order the wrong wine against the soup spoon, cork proffered for inspection._

“ _I'm so very sorry, but the kitchen has informed me that we are fresh out of pumpernickel.” The frown rings false but you do your best to hide your disappointment at how late he is. You were promised at the bus stop that he would be doing better after the appointment and fiddle with the straw in the plastic cup. Ice jumps suicidally to the bartop. The other diners shoot looks across the purple place mats and their mouths draw straight lines across napkins tic-tac-toe but she always chooses circle_

Blue darkness gives way to the shock of digital light. The pain in her upper back is a dagger, twisting around the cord and deep into her sleep-shocked mind, the warm ache a constant companion. Her monitor screen burns yellow and blue, the contrast that she had fucked with to keep her eyes from drying out too fucking bright for three in the goddamned morning. Keyboard digging into her right breast and the acoustic guitar in her headphones was joined by a Midwestern voice assuring her that it was already dead to him now, and it felt like he was watching something die. 

She hadn't been dreaming. 

Dreams were for other people.

The chair offered less lumbar support than the box promised it would. She should know, the box was about twenty feet away in box purgatory, living with all the other boxes she collected in reverence to the lie that she would actually put her belongings back into their proper boxes should she ever decide to move for the third time. Twice now she had moved a closet full of empty boxes. Three states away, where she had signed for them back when a good computer chair was a problem she had given a shit about, she had decided to move purpose shaped cardboard and insulation into a moving van and unpack them. Boxes full of good intentions that she smiled wryly about and pretended made good stories at parties to mention. Everyone has boxes filled with nothing. The keyboard grew heavier in her chest as she chuckled about the card

_Bored now as you watched his chin waggle, the conversation wearing thin. You had heard him brag about the hunt for the past three years and it never ceased to amaze how self centered he could be about this sort of thing. But he had promised an appearance and you aimed to please, make it seem like you loved being roped into these kinds of situations. No one dared to make eye contact while he droned, all eyes on the ball. It spun wildly, white and bluer than you had thought possible rising to touch the ends of your vision, changing with each breath your arms outstretched and the gravity. The weight of it! It was a pressure as the touch scraped gingerly across the top of your spine and she bit deep_

“ _-er than we would like. But with enough effort, you'll come out the other end of this just fine. It's-”_

 _He paused here. Gravity of his words, but the gap in conversation wasn't meant for her. She knew what he was going to say._

“ _It's going to be hard”._

_There it was. The worst case scenario. She would never be able to_

_wake_

She struggled from the floor into a less pitiable position. The fourth time she had just decided not to go to bed that week. Not to lay there waiting for the black voice to take her, not that anyone gave a shit about sleeping anyway. Just something else she couldn’t do without her medication. The drugs worked, and that scared her more than lying about their effectiveness. She had no one to blame but herself, after all. The bags under her eyes, the yellow tinge around the corners of her lips. The two sizes too small bra that probably had more holes than appropriate for polite coffee dates in the early afternoon. 

But the drugs worked. The pain became manageable. She slept after taking them. 

She managed. Managed to let everything fall apart. The monitor looked like a Photoshop contest for a summer action movie, bisected contrast making her eyes burn. She pilfered the scattered water bottles for something to help with the dry mouth that tasted of copper and melted plastic. The way melted plastic smelled, not electronic; the one that really digs deep into your sinuses and crinkles like recycling underfoot. She had asked for something to help her forget; how could she ever forget that

_blue was not enough. Deeper than that, deeper than the expanse of the ocean she had dipped into as a child, never black. No storm graced its surface with a contrast against the blinding gold towers that mirrored and pierced one another, shattered reflections in a fun house where if you tilt the mirror just so, doppelgangers wrapped around the darkness as you doubled and doubled and and and and doubled up small as you can against the glass. Pressing your face against the golden pane, floating higher. It has a gravity. Larger than can be imagined, bringing tears, you didn't cry like this have you ever cried so_

Life was hard, and that was the end of it. She buried her after the firestorm subsided, the violet accents of the coffin glinting in the early morning sun. It had been a brilliant morning and the resentment about that festered sometimes. Just one more thing to hold against her mother, not even having the decency to die on a meteorologically appropriate occasion. She stretches against the firm foam of the mattress, willing a vertebrae to pop, to release an ounce of the pressure, to release the waterfall and shatter against the cool marble of 

Her bed. In her bed. It was a mattress they had given her as a group present after the move, each contributing to a gift-card balance. A grown up gift, heartless and sickeningly perfect, allowing the indulgent purchase of a top of the line corpse buffer, a soft place to pretend to be dead and forget about the dreams. 

She did not dream. She did not dream. If she could not remember dreams they did not happen that is how it works. She could not remember the blue

_A hand darts up to cover the low gasp. It was so blue. So brilliant and bright and blue. Your face is wet with tears now and you are is angry; Fucking furious that you could be so selfish as to forget. So weak as to need to forget that soft, brilliant blue, an iris of perfect possibility that dwarfed any beauty you could ever imagine while you were a_

_wake_

“I really can't describe it. 

It feels like walking through a doorway you close behind you and when you turn around there was no doorway 

Just the empty hall stretching out and you're left with your hand on a doorknob that was never there like an idiot. 

Let me worry about that you probably won't even remember

Because that's how it feels

Look don't argue with me about this it's my whole fucking deal

I don't come busting up in your business about lumens or how many bulbs it takes to screw”

_it is only black for a moment but it stretches behind you filling the spaces that should not be empty there is so much to remember you have to remember oh god please let me remember this time I need to_

A wake seemed highly inappropriate this long after the fact, vices of the deceased about as far from non-withstanding as possible. “Less standing than she usually was.” No one laughed at the joke. Recovery had stolen grief, and so she wore it as a mask, putting it on and taking it off when she saw fit; how she felt other people thought she should feel. She smiled at that. Reading others was a strength she had prided herself in when she was younger. Unbroken. It was a knack and drove the others crazy, shared glances and in-jokes of diagnosis in that way friends take pride in each others abilities. Begrudging at times, but pride nonetheless. It was how the two of them had communicated, reading into intentions that lay just below the surface. God she could be such a bitch at times. Had kept so much buried and now it was too late to access the past, nothing but worthless garbage: a crypt of future-tech and cataclysmic engines. The estate was sold. There were no well wishers. Nothing would be

“ _We'll get the hang of it but the thing to_

_remember_

_is that I was never there. Unless we've fucked things up to a point where repair is impossible, which I would honestly not be surprised given the circumstances”_

Circumstances were as follows. At seven forty-five the alarm would ring. She had been awake for approximately twenty-two minutes at that point, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction that so much had been accomplished before breakfast. The notebook eased closed around the violet ribbon marking her place; she snapped the accompanying elastic like a surgeon checking his gloves. ~~Secure.~~ There was plenty of incriminating material in her dream journal, should anyone care to pry it out of her cold dead hands and parse ~~the~~ ~~ephemeral projections of an unconscious mind.~~ She thought for a moment, decided that last turn of phrase wasn't quite up to snuff, and dealt with it accordingly. A knock on the door, summoned by the aforementioned alarm, informed her of the current state of morning affairs, Primary: that it was morning. Secondary: that she should be a ~~ _wake_~~ _._ Both tasks assigned and executed with military efficiency, she reported back to the closed door, saluting with a sarcastic sneer ~~that wasn't meant for anyone but her own smug satisfaction.~~ She really didn't have to act this way all of the time, but it was almost second nature when the subject of pre-fast breaking tradition was involved. Hence the dream journal, a Jungian exercise in daily discipline, which she hoped would give a better idea of why she had frequent issues with lucid retention visa vi dreams after all she always had the same 

  


_Circumstances were as follows. The room is an ultraviolet assault on your eyes as they adjust to the curve of the floor, sloping away from you on all sides. The walls are perfectly straight until you look at them, bending under the weight of your gaze and leading your eyes to the clock in the corner reading o'clock, which was later than you would have guessed from the amount of light coming from the window. You close your journal, stand up from the writing desk across the room from where the clock used to be and check your watch. The watch was a gift, originating as a prize from a cereal box but thrust onto your wrist with such enthusiasm that you couldn't help but smile at seeing it was o'clock. There was still time. Journal in hand you dive for the window, knowing what leads behind the door. You defenestrate, flipping and catching yourself on the window-frame; shards cascade like a waterfall beneath. You had fallen so many times before reaching back was second nature and it was such a drop but there was still time to ease the elastic off of the notebook with your teeth, tearing at its restraints as your fingers strain against the gravity of_

_blue_

_there was no gravity. Not here, not ever, everything was lighter than you could imagine as your fingers slip away, relaxing into the cool sheeting mist, pulling you slowly away from your golden tower. The book slips from between your teeth and falls, pages turning as they tumble slower than you had believed possible, exposing your ephemeral projections: your conscious_

“Mind the gap.” 

  


Not 

“Don't go out there, love, for your safety as well as my sanity.” 

“It's slippery, and you lack the proper safety equipment and harness.” 

“You are standing at the top of a twenty-two foot hydroelectric water feature that generates enough power to keep us off the grid, and therefore more than enough to shatter your tiny form” 

But

  


“Mind the gap”. 

She said it with a wry grin, a look of sly understanding that her daughter's familiarity with British subway fatalities would bridge this particular stab at humour. A nod in response, automatic, hypnotized by the rushing water. Its volume, its volume! Louder than it had any right to be this close, a rushing heaviness that sunk into her lungs as she struggled to wrench herself through, to grab the bottle, to find purchase in the blue depths

Surgery had lasted twenty-two hours; she had died. Not in the way that people black out on the table and are dramatically brought back with an utterance of clear and a screeching of electricity, but in that quick, gnomic way; New York minute. A nurse was monitoring vitals and included that fun party story on her chart: BT/BR/HR/RR in tiny numerical script, a soft sigh at her refusal to take the easy way out as the numbers changed. The blood inside her veins was gifted by selfless donors, a pumping crimson essence. It should have been rejected, the mechanical inserts plunged deep without her consent as her veins greedily drank the proffered spirit. Without consent. But then again what the fuck did she know. Her body was broken; her mind was occupied.

During recovery, she practiced her penmanship writing personal letters of thanks to each of the surgical staff and residents. It had been a catastrophic day for all involved, and it was the least she could do after all of the trouble she had caused. The healing pulled tight, a slow pinprick of sensitivity creeping note by painful note. The tightness resonated through her legs and chest, vibrating a crescendo of regret. She played each and every tone, screaming in frustration while being dully informed her luck in being able to feel anything at all. The luckiest girl imaginable, awash in statistical unlikelihood. Washed ashore in a current of ash and rubble, shattered at the feet of a marble kingdom she would never

_remember_

“ _How will I know this ever happened?” You lean against the railing of your balcony, turning back to face him. This is not the first time you have had this conversation. The violet city shimmers below you, countless argent peaks stabbing into the void. He shrugs. You just will. You're smart. Clever. You have to believe in yourself._

“ _How will I know this ever happened?” You clutch at the railing of your balcony, locking eyes with him. This is the first time you have had this conversation. He shrugs. It's how these things work, memories collapse and reinforce across_

“ _How will I know this ever happened?” This is the first time you feel his breath railing against the nape of your neck as you clutch the top of his spine_

She squeezed her knees to her chest, the cool wall straddling her on both sides. her bed had been shifted in the night, the new orientation carrying the alien familiarity of a change in perspective. she could not remember getting up and moving things around, but this bothered her less than she thought it should. Just a dull fact that her brain swam through, sending up ripples. The medication wasn't to blame.

Forty-five months since the last appointment. She picked at the corner of her sweater, wool unfurling at the edges of the garment where she had been careless in the bind off. Her casting was sloppy, just a task to keep her hands occupied while she rattled off the newest comparability numbers over the text-to-speech. It wasn't faster than typing, but her hands were occupied. She liked correcting the simple mistakes in interpretation the program made. There weren't as many as there used to be; the program was clever and she had grown accustomed to the pronunciation requirements. She could have just typed things faster. But it was nice to talk and be misunderstood.

The insurance settlement was absurdly generous, if such a word could be associated with insurance companies. "Out of the ordinary," was how the executor had phrased it, particularly given the large amount of claims occurring simultaneously across the nation after the event. Her case was unusual in the fact that every possibility had seemed to be accounted for. Such improbable foresight would normally have a quarrel of lawyers chomping at the bit with allegations of fraud, but all were swept aside. She had been unconscious for the deliberations. It all occurred behind a black curtain of beta-titanium implants and midazolam. "Well-Versed," the nurse had said. The emphasis on the last syllable; rhyming it with dead. Which she had been. The long seconds had ticked without her knowing, the anesthetic black turning to a deeper blue, uncoded. No need for a crash cart, she was already on the slab. Cool professionalism prevailed, it wasn't an odd occurrence given the amount of trauma but she was brought

_"-back? I don't know how many times or how much further you can go." The violet room curves around you both, shadows cascading in from the endless night beyond the window. You rise from the edge of the bed and turn back to look at him. You look down at your hands, the purple garments fitted perfectly to the edges of your wrists._

_"Golden Pajamas." You hear the words escape your lips and he looks up at you quizzically. They were never gold. They had always been purple. You wrap your hands around yourself and feel the tug in the back of you mind. Time isn't the answer. It always was the answer but you are asking the wrong question. There was always enough_

"Time to try a roll. That's it, use your core, it'll be harder if

"Amazing progress. You're showing little to no signs of post-surgical rejection, and at this

"Rated top of your class, but I really have to object to a

"Transfer? But we've only just begun the trials on the new prosthetic

"Limb from limb! Literally the most bloody match I've ever seen, it was just brutal from start to finish. You gonna eat that?" He pointed with a fry at the portion in front of her, drawing a bead at the untouched arugula and beet salad. She raised her head from her hand, the warm pattern of palm joints marking her face. No, she was not going to eat it. Her date continued to drone about the most recent physical conquest he had born witness to. Figuratively, she had bit her tongue to stop from correcting him. The dress was a tight violet number, the neckline high and collared, far too formal for the occasion. He barely fit into what passed for a leisure suit. She fiddled with the fork before muttering an excuse. Had she? He had stopped talking for a blissful moment and she had seized upon the silence. The table shifted as she rises, thanking him for the company. Had she? The cheque was settled before another word was uttered. She had been pleasant and receptive. She had not spoken a single word. He still wondered about her and what he could have done differently. She did not think about him at all. No, that couldn't be right, she had to 

"I remember that it was 9:07 PM exactly, and I had just done checking the perimeter fencing for damage after the storm. Roads were wet as as all hell and I saw the reflection on the road first. The lights I mean. Big as saucers-"

"Flying Saucers?"

"No sir, dinner plates. The lights were above the horizon and they blinded me, zipping faster than anything I've seen then or since. But the clock said 9:07, and next thing I was parked five miles south of where I just was and it was 10:45!"  
"How did you know you were five miles south?"

"Road markers! I mark the fence as I go, use red twine."

"Twine?"

"Yessir: Time! I had lost time! Bam! One minute then the next, just as you like. They had taken me up and did god knows what for all that time."

"And you're positive that it was an encounter?"

She closed the browser window. There was a remaining twenty minutes in the episode but it she had seen the entire season more than once, and the interstitial advertisements weren't worth the effort of reruns. Who needed commercials when metadata analytics could tell you what you needed in the middle of your alien encounter trash? She rolled back and the chair stuck on a pile of discarded laundry, which she eyed disdainfully. Psychogenic amnesia; more likely acute brain-injury most likely-post traumatic, but the show didn't entertain these possibilities. The extraordinary made for better television, and monthly CAT Scans with neuropsychological screening were a mundane byproduct of the extraordinary. The medication worked, and the scans were clear. Clean bill of health, ordinary recovery given the circumstances.

She did not dream. This was a normal side effect. A normal outcome. She shouldn't be worried. She lied automatically every time they asked her if she was worried. Little white, right? She of all people knew exactly how healthy lying was when therapy was concerned. There was nothing to worry

“ _About four or five sessions now,” She sipped at the tea deliberately, the steam adding a certain mystique to the poignancy of the statement she hoped would not be lost on you. 1 You raise an eyebrow and make a note, double checking your dates before responding.2 She sees your lips part and cuts you off: “Should I be worried?” She finishes, hissing at the smokey brew.3_

“ _Dreams are sometimes just that, but changes to content and duration are common post trauma. You've been recalcitrant to discuss your dreams before” She curls her toes on the bare carpet when you mention her resistance and switch tactics “but dreaming of the deceased is noted in less than 1% of-” 4_

“ _I don't dream of anything.” She clenches the cup firmly. 5_

“ _Let me finish. It may be an indication of-” The tea burns as the china splits in her grasp. 6 7_

“ _'Increased daytime emotional distress and may indicate underlying trauma.' Along with a myriad of other psychically conclusions. Are you saying I'm broken, Doctor?” She rises from the chair, tea steaming into the carpet; a shard draws close to your throat. 8_

“ _Listen close,” She whispers into your ear, warm ceramic drawing hot to your flesh. “'In the end, the only events in my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world irrupted into this transitory one. That is why I speak chiefly of inner experiences, amongst which I include my dreams and visions.'” 9 You feel the warm drip of _

  


Thunder shatters the late afternoon peace, amber twilight giving way to a blue darkness. The pain in her lower legs is a series of pins and needles, numbing her form as she sluggishly shifts, tensing with each new drop of blood and expanding vein. She had been napping for hours, and the storm had caught up with her while she slept. Her eyes lift slowly to the sound of crackling electricity, too close for comfort. An explosion outside her window, blue and red

  


_I thought we planned to progress as far as we could before you went back._

  


The power is dead, has been for hours judging by the melting ice seeping from the bottom of the freezer. She has searched everywhere but her Mother is nowhere to be found, and the fire is approaching rapidly. Abandoned in a time of need; typical. There is no shelter from the storm save for a Modernist oven, a concrete box built at the precipice. Mind the gap. She is weeping now, salt running down her palms and into her lap. Poor little

  


_To gather information, and avoid repeating mistakes._

  


The bottle is a '49 Chais D'Argenteuil, smelling of dust and crypts. It was locked behind a formerly secure glass cabinet, with a handwritten note attached: “For Parties.” She struggles with the corkscrew, pressing the handle deep into her now dry palm, rage coloring her face as the cork disintegrates beneath the torsion. The storm howls against the shaking panes of glass as the purple fluid sops into awaiting crystal, bits of cork bobbing to the surface as it breaths the first fresh air in half a century

  


_Maybe I'm just not as comfortable with time travel as you._

  


The glass isabandoned, they share that particular characteristic. The wine tastes acidic and deep, of rotten pears and cobwebs, painting her tongue. She drinks with determination as she climbs to the observatory. This was not the first time she had made this walk, or practiced this speech. No one to listen but the empty halls, violet staining the walls as she slurs and misses a step

  


_Is there a chance it'll continue to exist, and I'll just be here alone forever?_

  


Water running down her face, soaking her hair and clothes. Steam rises from her in sheets, propelled into the blinding rage of flames that surround her home; lightning has struck and the forest was eager to burn. She climbs the slick cladding, ascending to her fate. The bottle she had tucked under her arm tips awkwardly, and she overcompensates feeling the weight shift. Drunkenly reaching back, up, above her shoulder before hauling over top of the ledge. The grit of the concrete scrapes as she drags herself up and sits for a moment, adrenaline cutting through her liquid courage. She uncorks the bottle and leans back, the bitter liquid filling her mouth and throat. She suppresses the urge to gag and stands shakily to her feet.

_I'm not sure which outcome is more unsettling._

  


The waterfall was a marvel of modern architecture, a love letter to Frank Lloyd Wright and hydroelectric engineering. The smoke rising from the surrounding forest blends the horizon and contrasts the white marble exterior. Ten feet. Ironically, there is no note. Her lips are set firm, purple at the edges. Five feet. She shatters the bottle against the roof, and violet bleeds with the rain. 

She considers the edge, water rushing into the crucible of steam and fire below. Mind the gap.

  


_What do you think I should do?_

  


She closes her eyes, and the fear begins to sink into her veins. It numbs her flesh and clouds her mind, and she turns away. Slips, her weight on the wrong foot-

Her spine cracks the lip of the edge, and the air is sucked from her lungs. Eyes wide, shooting open as the pain strikes: lightning. Her lips taste copper and burning plastic, ozone filling the air as her skin trembles. Her arms go taught, seeking purchase. The falls roar greedily as she tumbles, grasping desperately for a hold

  


_Good luck_. 

  


A hand catches her slick wrist, nails biting deep into the numb flesh. She struggles to crane her neck, weighed down by the rushing blue. There is no air in her lungs, and her mouth is open in a muted cry. She sees a figure through the falls, holding desperately. She figure is screaming her name. She is pulled up, arm popping from the socket, but the the hand cannot find purchase. It grips harder, slipping slowly as the power of the falls steals her momentum. The echo in her addled mind, and she hears her mother for the last time

  


_The bed is comfortable, and you open your eyes; well rested. That was odd, but it did not seem to ring false. You cannot remember the last time you felt so awake. Soft purple covers your bedroom, and a smile plays along the edges of your lips._

_There is work to be done._

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


1. Groisser, D. S. (1978). A study of caffeine in tea. I. A new spectrophotometric micro-method. II. Concentration of caffeine in various strengths, brands, blends, and types of teas. _The American journal of clinical nutrition_ , _31_ (10), 1727-1731. 

2Attached 45-51

3Patient demonstrates a need to self-diagnose and uses interruption defensively, a habit that she herself has admitted to. 

4Germain, A., Shear, K. M., Walsh, C., Buysse, D. J., Monk, T. H., Reynolds, C. F., 3rd, … Silowash, R. (2013). Dream content in complicated grief: a window into loss-related cognitive schemas. _Death studies_ , _37_ (3), 269–284. “In individuals with CG, (as opposed to those experiencing normal grief) it is possible that dreaming of the deceased may, paradoxically, be associated with _more_ severe daytime symptoms of psychiatric distress, rather than _less_ distress and better coping. “

5Zherebtsov, Sergey, et al. "Effect of High-Pressure Torsion on Structure and Properties of Ti-15Mo/TiB Metal-Matrix Composite." _Materials_ 11.12 (2018): 2426. 

6Bougdanos, Laura. "Tea cup and method of manufacturing a tea cup." U.S. Patent 9,060,629, issued June 23, 2015. 

7Bertrand, E., et al. "Synthesis and characterisation of a new superelastic Ti–25Ta–25Nb biomedical alloy." _Journal of the mechanical behavior of biomedical materials_ 3.8 (2010): 559-564. 

8Soares, Joaquim JF, Stephen Lawoko, and Peter Nolan. "The nature, extent and determinants of violence against psychiatric personnel." _Work & Stress_ 14.2 (2000): 105-120. 

_9wake_


End file.
